Low Place Like Home
by viola-lion
Summary: What if Cook had come to visit Effy at the hospital? 4.05 Spoilers!
1. Chapter 1

**Wordcount:** 1,191  
**Pairing:** Cook/Effy!  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything!  
**Warning:**This is set after Freddie's episode in S4, so major spoilers ahead!

**Note: **First fic ever, don't go too hard on me :)**  
**

Their faces swim by as you're drifting in and out of consciousness. You can hear the sirens of the ambulance that is rushing you to the hospital ringing in your ears, and everything around you is blurred, so that the faces that are looking over you are nothing but patches of fair colour. there's one of them that's darker than all of the others, but nothing really matters, because somewhere, deep inside, you can hear the demons growling with content. You feel yourself smiling and then you close your eyes, and the last thing you remember is a pair of light blue eyes piercing into yours.

Hours, or possibly days later – you don't know, nothing really makes sense to you right now – you hear the door of your hospital room opening in a way that you already know who's coming to see you. You feel him inches from your bed, the way he sits on the chair next to you is so gentle, the way he takes in a deep breath, the way you feel his eyes on your wasted body, it's him, all right. You'd recognise him even if he was miles away from you.

And yet you hate him, because he's made you weak. He cracked the shell you thought would always keep you safe, keep you away from them. The first time your eyes met his, you already felt the demons' claws scratching their way to the surface, already felt the fire burning a bit too bright. You hate him. You hate him so much. If it wasn't for him, you'd be home right now, smoking cigarettes – you miss those dearly – and you'd be laughing with the other one, the one that had eyes that reminded you of summer.

And that's when you open your eyes, and it's such a hard task, it takes you a few moments before being able to look at him properly. There's tears rolling down his cheeks, but you already knew that. You could hear them falling down the carpeted floor as soon as he entered the room. Your eyes connect, and he tries to compose himself, but fails miserably. You don't blame him.

Actually, you do.

That's why you tell him, slowly: "Go away." He looks at you and his eyes are pleading, and you remember a time when it was the other one that was pleading – never out loud, though, no, but by his eyes, how they seemed to glow with hopelessness – and all you want to do is scream. Scream at the top of your lungs, but you don't, because you're tired. Everything you do is so tiring.

Your eyes are already closed when he leaves the room.

* * *

One time, you wake up, and all you remember from your dream is a little girl telling you to open the swan and at first you think, hey, that's fucking stupid, because I would never cut open a fucking _swan_. And then you see it, it's so small and fragile you're afraid touching it might turn it straight to ash.

It's a swan made out of paper, and you take it in your hand, your fingers tracing the creases he's made in the paper. You already know what's inside. You've known this for a very long time, but you can still feel yourself opening the swan, slowly.

That's when you see it. In black ink, looking as though it had been written with trembling hands; '_LOVE YOU FOREVER_.'

You start crying then. Not because it's all so lovely and romantic, but because you don't know what you're doing. No matter how hard you try, you're still not really willing to let go, are you? Once again, you wish you could go back to a time where you never really spoke, where the only person that really mattered was your brother. Where you were someone everybody could look at, but never touch.

You stop crying suddenly, and then a wicked smile curves on your lips.

Until the end of your journey at the hospital, he never comes back to visit.

* * *

You've been in the hospital for two weeks now, and the only person that visits you is your mother. She tells you they'll discharge you soon, but then you'll have to go to some fucking loony bin so that the doctors can figure out what the fuck is wrong with you. Of course, your mother didn't really say it that way. She used words like '_rehabilitation center_' and '_find out what your current state of mind is._'

Sometimes, she'll bring the daily paper and read the news out loud, but you both know she's not really doing this for you and it makes you cringe.

What you really want to know is if your brother knows, if he's going to pop on a train anytime soon to come and visit you.

* * *

He visits you one evening, after your disgusting mass produced hospital meal. He sits on the chair your mother would usually occupy and looks at you. Just looks at you, before placing his hand over yours, the one with the IV stuck inside.

"Fuckin' hell, Eff…" is all he can come up with and you shrug. You decide to look into his eyes and once again, you're completely hit by how beautiful they are.

They're much like your own, but there's something more. A spark of recklessness you've been lacking of for such a long time. They're laughing but caring at the same time, and all of a sudden, you yank your hand away from his and place it back on top of his own, gripping at it tightly.

He looks at both of your hands quietly and doesn't move his away for a really long time.

* * *

It becomes some kind of ritual for the pair of you. He comes to your side every evening, once you're done eating. Sometimes, he'll tell you about your circle of friends, but it doesn't really matter to you anymore. You don't relate to them anymore. You never did.

Instead, he makes up stories about things normal people would never really talk about – because you both know you're far from normal – recounting facts about empty teacups and grass so crisp and green, it would actually twinkle in the sunlight. You like the stories, because they're all beautiful.

"I never knew you had such talent with story-telling, Cook."

And he's looking at you as if you've just handed him a bouquet full of flowers. He smiles, and there are so many things unsaid in that smile. "You know this is the first time you've spoken ever since we've started this shit, yeah?" he says, and you're surprised at this. Somehow, the silence felt natural around him. You never really felt the need to talk. It's all so effortless, being around him.

You shrug. "You should become a writer." you say, a weak smile creeping on your lips.

He smiles again, and if he keeps doing that, you might just have to tell him to stop doing it, because it's making you weak again. "Yeah."

This will linger.

Wooo. Wow, kudos if you've read through the whole thing, lmao. Yeah. There's not too many CE in this chapter, but there will be in the second, don't worry~ be happy~


	2. Chapter 2

You haven't slept in days. It all feels so familiar, the jumping from one town to another, and yet, you know this time it's going to be different. Both of you are escaping for different reasons now – you, from the law; her, from her inner demons – and she chose you to accompany her. Not Freddie, not her mother, not her fucking brother. No. She chose you, James Cook, and no one else.

One thing doesn't change, though and it's the fact that your journey begins with her looking as fragile as ever. She's so vulnerable and even if it was there that they patched her back together, the hospital hasn't done her much good.

She's skinnier than before. Her long and pale limbs reminds you of a skeleton. You can see the veins running under her translucent skin, like branches from a tree that has been dead a long time ago. There are dark circles under her light blue eyes and it seems as though every movement she makes is uncoordinated.

You know it's going to take a lot of time to bring the old Effy back, the one you never really got the chance to know, but you know that's what it's going to take to make her get better. Make her heal, really.

* * *

One night, you're staying at a small motel down the road in direction of a small town near London. You cradle her in your arms as you watch whatever's on television and you play with her hair silently. She makes lazy, sarcastic comments about whatever's going on that stupid reality show you're watching, and you laugh softly at every single remark she makes.

You never really look at the television, because you're too busy looking at her. Her clothes are all a tad too big for her now; they're not as tight as they usually were. Her hair's wet from the shower she took as soon as you had crashed in that small room. It's the first time in weeks you'll be sleeping in actual beds, and not on the backseat of your stolen car. It will be the first time in weeks both of you will get the chance to change clothes, take warm showers and eat some decent food.

You had brought the strict minimum. Effy had brought a small bag of her possessions, consisting on a few pieces of clothing, Tony's picture, a carton of cigarettes and a small bottle of vodka. You did the same, except you decided to bring a large bag of weed to sell on the journey to have some kind of money instead. She had smiled at that.

As Effy watches a peroxide blonde actress get dumped by her fit boyfriend, you let go of her hair and place her head carefully on one of the fluffy pillows. You kiss her forehead lightly, before standing up to walk towards the single window there is, the one that was on the opposite side of the room.

You burry your hands in your plait pants' pockets before closing your eyes, trying your best to suppress a sigh. You try to convince yourself that everything will be alright soon, that as soon as you will find some boat that'll be able to bring you two to France like you had planned, she would feel better and the pair of you would live a life together, happily.

But you fail, miserably, because there's still a part of you that's sure she's going run away from you as soon as you will set foot in another country.

You love her, yes. But what was pure lust and passion – what you had felt for her for a really long time – has transformed itself in genuine concern and caring. Every time you take her in your arms, you're always afraid you're going to break her, because she seems so fragile and wounded, you're sure she'll shatter into thousands of little pieces. Let's face it, she is wounded. She tried to fucking off herself. You don't have time to take her in any other way than seriously.

The pair of you haven't slept together ever since you have run away. Nothing happened between you two, only casual kisses on cheeks and foreheads, which were given by you most of the time.

It doesn't matter right now. All you want is to get her somewhere safe so that she can start her life anew, so that she'd be able to let her demons behind her in this shit country. The fact that you're running away from the law is never on your mind. What matters is that you're helping her. You're doing this for her, not for yourself.

It starts to rain outside.

* * *

"What's wrong with my elephant story, eh?" you ask, a playful smile hanging on your lips. You've been driving for the past couple of hours in direction of Cardiff University. She wants to say goodbye to her brother before leaving. You don't mind, though you feel a bit nervous. You're about to meet the one person she truly cares about.

"Nothing, it's just a little disturbing." She says quietly, shaking her head with a laugh. "I don't think children will like hearing about an elephant with a penis so big he'd have to tape it to his belly so he wouldn't have to drag it across the ground." She adds, before settling her feet on the dashboard.

You watch her stare at her worn out boots for a moment before laughing softly. "Right, right. Ah well." You shrug, before looking at the road again. There's the familiar click of a lighter and then, the next moment, the car's filled with the smell of cigarette smoke. You smile. "I'll save this one just for you, yeah?"

Ever since she had encouraged you to become a writer, you keep a small notebook hidden in the glove compartment of the car, in which you write all of your stories. You stay up late every night, when you're sure she's asleep, and you write. You write until dawn breaks the charcoal sky.

Again, you're doing this for her, but also because it makes you feel happy.

You feel happy when you're around her as well.

Every time you finish one of your stories, you feel ten times calmer than how you were feeling before. It makes you feel alive in so many ways, the fact that the words that are in your head can be read on a mere piece of paper fascinates you. All of this, because of her. She inspires you, makes you feel like someone so much better than who you actually are.

"Yeah."

All you'll remember, while driving to Cardiff, is her crystalline laugh that seems to make you glow like nothing else ever would.

- - - - - - -  
YAY. SECOND PART IS UP! bahaha. sorry for the wait! By the way, there will be some Tony goodness in part three, teehee (:


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